


closer to the edge

by preromantics



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP. / <i>"It's fine," Derek says. "I'm not done with you, anyway."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	closer to the edge

**Author's Note:**

> PWP. Really, there is no plot here, unless I can justify the plot as ‘orgasms’. I just missed writing porn. 
> 
> Contains: oversensitivity, rimming, unprotected sex (but werewolfness magically negates that, right), comeplay, and some super brief hinted at kink negotiation for somnophilia and possibly extra penetration play.
> 
> Massive thank you to the lovely _sociallyinept_ for the wonderful comments in her readthrough/beta. I am the pickiest about porn word choice! :*
> 
> Title picked specifically because I wanted something from Tegan & Sara's _Drove Me Wild_ for this. 
> 
> Originally from the [tumblr](http://peachbows.tumblr.com) prompt: sterek: oversensitivity, derek fucking and coming inside stiles and fingering him to feel how loose and wet he is afterward

Stiles comes barely a minute after Derek finally, _finally_ , gets inside of him. 

Derek bottoms out on his next thrust and stills. "Fuck, Stiles --"

"Maybe if you hadn't rimmed me for approximately twenty fucking years first," Stiles says, breathless and a little forced. Derek had never gone on for that long before, even in the absence of a rushed and desperate fuck. Stiles is almost surprised he made it a minute with Derek fucking into him, already sensitive and aware of too many nerve endings at once. He can't stop squeezing around Derek's cock inside of him with Derek held so still, little aftershocks of his orgasm making his stomach jump under Derek's gaze. 

"It's fine," Derek says. "I'm not done with you, anyway."

Stiles makes a face at him, opens his mouth to come back with whatever is floating around as a retort in the post-orgasmic haze in his brain, but Derek lets go of where he'd been pressing bruises into Stiles' hip and drags his fingers through the come on Stiles' stomach, stopping him short. 

Derek pulls back, dragging perfect and too-sharp inside Stiles, and stills again with just the head of his cock stretching Stiles' rim wide. 

"But you'll be done soonish?" Stiles tries. He presses himself harder back into the mattress, trying to urge Derek to move. The barely-there stretch where Derek is poised over him is keeping all of his nerves on end, all of his muscles clenching to stay still as aftershocks of his orgasm still spark through his groin and down his spine.

Derek looks at the ceiling and actually rolls his eyes. "For someone who talks so much, you really need to work on your bedroom talk."

"Maybe we could start by not calling it _bedroom_ talk," Stiles says. 

Derek pushes forward, body all hard lines over Stiles as he thrusts back inside, slick and hard. Stiles groans and drops his head down onto Derek's pillow. Derek keeps up a measured pace, dragging back slowly and pausing before each thrust back in, staring, Stiles notices eventually, down between the spread of both their legs at where he's pressing into Stiles, keeping him open around just the head of his cock. 

"I know you can come again," Derek says. He punctuates it with a hard thrust forward, rolling his hips up and reaching down under the small of Stiles' back to pull him upright and into Derek's lap. 

"Fuck," Stiles says, because he loves it like this and Derek knows he does. "Fuck, maybe I wanted to just sleep instead."

Derek hums, low in his throat, and rolls upward. Stiles bends back to brace himself against the bed, and Derek's hands slide with his movement, spreading wide over his spine to keep him close. 

"You'd rather I fuck you while you drool all over my pillow?" Derek asks, low. 

"I don't drool," Stiles says, automatic. He moans at the next powerful roll of Derek's hips and loses his train of through. "Also, no?" he finishes, not meaning to make it a question. He files the thought away for later, when he doesn’t feel half out of his own skin.

Derek bends over him and noses into his neck, where Stiles thinks he can almost feel the answering grin pressed into his skin.

"Good?" Derek asks, muffled. 

Stiles shoves his hips up and forward to meet Derek's next thrust and Derek drags his nose up over Stiles' throat until he can kiss him, open mouthed around a short groan. 

Stiles can't focus on any particular sensation, now that he's meeting each of Derek's motions and his own cock is slapping up against his stomach with the momentum, hard and heavy. Derek's hands keep sliding over his back, curling over his shoulders and dragging back down to palm at his ass and pull him closer. Stiles reaches up and changes position, wraps his arms around Derek's neck and just sort of clings, aware he's panting unattractively against the top of Derek's head.

Everything feels sort of dulled around the edges. Stiles still feels wrung out from his first orgasm and the half hour Derek had spent just teasing him with his mouth and fingers, slapping Stiles hands away and keeping him tense and struggling not to come with each pass of Derek's tongue between his fingers opening Stiles up. He usually has no problem getting off twice with Derek, knows Derek likes getting him off first and fucking him open and pliable until Stiles feels desperate with the need to get off again, scratching at his back and biting at his jaw. 

Derek still doesn't seem to be in a hurry, so Stiles shoves forward to get him to fall onto his back. Derek laughs at him, open with his head tipped down over the edge of the end of the bed. They shift enough so Derek isn't hanging over the edge and Stiles picks up the pace for both of them, digging his knees into the mattress on either side of Derek's hips and riding him. 

"Shit," Derek says, when Stiles thumbs over both of his nipples at once with a hint of nail.

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, because he loves watching Derek's nipples pebble up under his fingertips. He rocks back and forth a little as he slides up and down Derek's cock, knows Derek likes more than one motion, and Derek grabs his hips for extra leverage with a low groan that sounds more like a growl.

"You're not enjoying this," Derek says, soft, his fingers pressing into Stiles' hips a little harder than usual.

Stiles looks down at him, not faltering in the rhythm he's picked up. "What?"

"You're just trying to get me off," Derek says, with a look down between them. He runs his hands up from Stiles' hips to his ribs, light, and Stiles shivers and hunches forward.

"That’s sort of the point,” Stiles says, pulling all the way up before dropping down, hard. “And I'm enjoying the challenge," he offers. And he _is_ enjoying this: Derek feels heavy inside of him and his skin feels like a livewire every place Derek skims his fingers. His own dick is hard and flushed, dripping precome against Derek's stomach when Stiles rolls forward, the drag of Derek’s cockhead at his rim making him ache and drop back down just to feel it again on the slide back up. He just doesn't feel desperate with it -- aching and fuzzy instead. 

Derek hums in response and doesn’t say anything further. He reaches around Stiles’ back, digs his thumbs into the base of Stiles’ spine and then drags his palms over Stiles’ ass, spreads him wider around his cock until his fingertips are just resting in a dry press over Stiles’ rim from either side. It’s the first really focused sensation Stiles comes back to, feeling suddenly less fuzzy and now only aware of the extra pressure where he’s already over-sensitive. 

Stiles tries and fails not to falter in his rhythm, squirming up and forward instead, trying to get away from Derek’s hands. Derek, because he’s a jerk and can probably hear the uptick in Stiles’ heartbeat, just gives a low laugh and pulls his hands away as quickly as he’d dragged them down. He even shrugs, a roll of his broad shoulders back into the mattress, like he doesn’t know.

Stiles levels him with a look but falls back down, picking up his pace and letting the momentum just sort of bounce his whole body as he leverages himself with his hands splayed out flat against Derek’s chest. His arms feel a little like they might not support him until Derek comes, now that Stiles can only focus on the perfectly angled drag of Derek’s cock inside of him. 

Derek reaches up with one hand and turns Stiles’ face toward him by his chin; Stiles didn’t even realize he’d turned his head to the side, jaw clenched around an unflattering whine after each slide over his prostate. Stiles watches Derek slide the fingers of his free hand into his own mouth, and keeps watching when Derek lets go of his jaw to do the same with his other hand. It’s entirely hotter than it should be, for everything Stiles has seen Derek do, but he doesn’t really get the end game Derek has in mind until Derek’s hands are wrapping back around Stiles to spread his cheeks wide again, and his split-slick fingers are slipping and catching against Stiles’ rim around Derek’s cock. 

“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles manages, pausing mid-motion with Derek only halfway inside. The pressure from Derek’s fingers is an exquisite kind of tease to things Stiles hasn’t even figured out how to mention he might want. When he drops his weight back down and Derek’s fingers spread him just wide enough around the base of his cock that one of his fingertips just barely presses inside, Stiles thinks his choked back moan might be a good enough request. 

“Fuck,” Derek agrees roughly, his pupils blown and not entirely human. His hips roll up hard, all barely restrained power underneath Stiles’ body, and his hands fly up to Stiles’ hips to hold him in place as Derek comes.

Stiles clenches around him and digs his nails into Derek’s chest because the sensation is overwhelming, all the little quick jerks of Derek’s hips as he thrusts through his aftershocks, with Stiles held tense above him. He goes for his own dick and gets Derek’s fingers wrapped tight around his wrist for his trouble, dragging his hand away.

“Still not done with you,” Derek says, a grit to his voice post-orgasm that never fails to spark up Stiles’ spine and make him want to roll his shoulders back against phantom sensations over his skin. 

“I’m pretty close to done,” Stiles says, his own voice shaky at best. 

Derek grins up at him, this slow and languid feral thing, and flips them over all at once, leaving Stiles clenching around nothing as Derek’s cock slides out. 

“Look at you,” Derek says, settling back on the bed and palming Stiles’ legs wider apart so he can lean in between them. 

Stiles looks down his own body, from the splotchy red flush on his chest to his hard cock stringing precome from his stomach to Derek between his legs, entirely focused on where his fingers are back to spreading Stiles’ rim open. He doesn’t have to see there to know exactly what he looks like, flushed dark and sensitive with Derek’s come probably starting to slide out of him where Derek’s thumb is teasing into him. 

“Ready to come now?” Derek asks, looking up at Stiles like he doesn’t already have the very positive evidence in front of his face. 

“Yes,” Stiles says, and only resists rolling his eyes because he gets caught up in pressing down against the two fingers Derek slips easily inside of him at the same time. 

“You’re so open,” Derek says, softly. He drags his fingers up until Stiles has to bend his legs at the knee to press his heels hard into the mattress. 

He still feels slightly off, at the pressure, though he can pinpoint each sensation in overwhelming clarity now. He still doesn’t feel as desperate to come as usual, even when the stretch of Derek’s fingers turns into three and the slick noise of each press inside gets louder and wetter as Derek drags his fingers through his own come. 

Everything winds up tight inside of him, his legs falling further apart when Derek ducks his head in and licks between his fingers, pornographically wet and loud in a way that has Stiles arching off the bed and groaning into his elbow.

“You’re shaking,” Derek says, kissing the soft inside of Stiles’ thigh and dragging the side of his face over the skin there, leaving a prickling burn behind that only adds to everything else. 

Stiles can feel the shake in the tautness of his muscles, the desperate way he’s clenching around Derek’s fingers to keep him from pulling back. 

“Come on,” Derek says, low.

Stiles raises his head to look down at him briefly (he’s still got a little bit of a grin, attractive and devastating at once) and drops his head right back down, swearing. “Shit,” he says, on something that sounds like a bastardized laugh, “I don’t even know if I can, Derek.”

Derek spreads his fingers a little inside of Stiles so they drag around his rim when he pulls his arm back before sliding back inside, and he hums out a low, considering sort of noise before taking the head of Stiles’ cock into his mouth. 

Stiles’ hips jerk up, surprised, and Derek takes the thrust easily when Stiles hits the back of his throat. It’s a jarring sensation, wrapped up in everything else, and he comes like his orgasm is being wrung out of his entire body, muscle by muscle and nerve ending by nerve ending.

Derek swallows, mouths at his cock until Stiles jerks away with his arched and taut through each shivery aftershock of his orgasm, a dull and full sort of ache everywhere instead of hot sparks down his spine like usual. 

“Fuck,” he says, when he can relax back into the bed enough for everything to stop shaking. 

Derek’s fingers slide loosely and feel intense inside of him until Stiles reaches down and pulls at Derek’s wrist, catching the almost-apologetic look on his face and squeezing his own eyes shut with a groan when Derek brings his hand up to his face to suck the mess off his fingers.

“Good,” Derek says, with a wet sort of pop. He sounds grossly fond, which is Stiles’ favorite thing to tease him about, but Stiles doesn’t have the brainpower in his fucked-out haze to do anything but smile up at the ceiling for a bit.

After a while, Stiles manages to sit up for long enough to turn right side up on the bed and flop down gracelessly onto a pillow. He doesn’t have the energy to fix the sheets, but Derek does it for them, laying flat and spread out into Stiles’ space when he’s done pulling everything straight from the tangled mess at the end of the bed and covering them. The silence that stretches as Stiles evens out his breathing is content and warm.

“So,” Derek says, minutes or an hour later, Stiles isn’t sure. “That sleeping thing --”

“Shut up,” Stiles groans, pressing his face further into his pillow. “Maybe,” he adds, muffled into the fabric. 

Derek rolls over to shut off the lamp on the bedside table before laying back down, curling forward with his chest against Stiles’ back. Derek squeezes his hip lightly once he’s settled and lays his arm over Stiles’ chest, pulling him closer. 

“Too hot,” Stiles complains, already overly warm where Derek’s skin is pressing against his in too many places. He relaxes further into the bed, regardless, and falls asleep easily with Derek’s nose tucked into his neck.


End file.
